Hallowed Family,
Those who were at morning worship today heard these words spoken aloud, but I write this letter to you now, as an apostle of God, to ensure that you keep this word ever before your eyes. Speak it to your families, guard its message from outsiders, write its truth upon the walls of your heart. Put it on like armor, that you may be ready to stand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.
Most of us live faithfully from week to week, quiet soldiers of the Lord, never expecting to be called up to active duty. But the time comes when faithfulness alone is not enough, and we must prove our love and loyalty through acts that are not only spiritual but physical. Sacrifice is not solely an Old Testament practice, nor is it limited to the intangibles alone. Our congregation has a deeper experience with that concept than most.
Most of you know the truth of our mission, but for some, faith may have faded and doubt may have crept in. Others may have lingered on the fringes of the church, worshipping with us without being fully attuned to the unique role that Wicklow Heritage Chapel fills in this world.
Now is the time for doubters to believe, for longtimebelievers to renew their faith, and for those on the fringes of the camp to draw nearer and understand our blessed purpose, a mission unique among God’s people.
For generations we have served as the guardians of Old Sheldon Church, which is not only a ruined place of worship but a burial site, the resting place of a pagan monstrosity that some might call a god but that we call by its true name—demon. The demon Cernunnos, bringer of death, enemy of life and righteousness, confined long ago. Our ancestors took up the duty of guarding the demon’s burial site and ensuring that he sleeps forever.
We have done our duty well for many years. We sanctify the ground, pray over it, and keep the faith. But there are some, wolves in sheep’s clothing, monsters in the guise of humans, who desire to stir up the ancient powers, restore their wicked ways, and bring horrible death upon all the faithful. We have striven to keep them out, even using their own dark magicks against them to build a wall, as Nehemiah did to protect his city from invaders and thieves. This wall, invisible yet effective, has kept us safe for decades. When pagans and those of corrupt blood come too close to our borders, we destroy them before they can conquer us and unleash this unspeakable evil upon the world.
And now, dear brothers and sisters, the painful truth—we are under threat by the forces of darkness. Infection spreads within our town, within the borders of the wall. Evil powers are at work to raise the ancient demon, and our sacred rituals are no longer enough to repress it. Corruption has wormed its way into our congregation, and yes, into our hearts.
At times such as these, God requires a reconsecration of our souls and bodies. A fresh demonstration of our devotion to His will. Even now, the church leaders are seeking out new paths of faith, discerning new revelations, discovering what kind of sacrifice God may require of us as warriors against the fiends of hell. Until such time as the way is revealed, I beg you to consecrate yourselves and your loved ones. Confess all sin. Chastise yourselves to show true penitence. Undertake days of fasting and nights of prayer, and let no one find rest while we strive and agonize together. This we must do, acting as one. The sin or dissent of a single member of the flock could bring the ruin of us all. So examine your hearts, deprive your bodies, and come together with us tonight as we beseech God for His aid.
Your Assistant Pastor,
Edgar Linton
Stunned, I read the thing twice.
Assistant Pastor Linton? Since when? Since yesterday? What the hell prompted Edgar to send out doomsday emails to the congregation from his dad’s email address?
Last night…he must have seen something last night. He heard me scream—everyone did, but I figured they’d chalk it up to the beer and high emotions. Maybe Edgar wasn’t as drunk as I thought. Or maybe…maybe when Heathcliff came to look for me, he followed. Maybe he saw something out in the sea—the giant watery fist of a furious sea god. Maybe that’s why he and the others packed up and left so fast. Add the sea god and my screams to the encounter withthe strangers at Aunt Nellie’s, and I guess it could have been enough to flip the switch and send Edgar and his dad into panic mode.
Or maybe something else happened. Something I don’t know about. More god-related deaths that I can’t perceive. And maybe I can’t see them because the thing buried under Old Sheldon Church is the actual god of death, Cernunnos. Cernunnos and the Morrigan—they’re the ones who created the banshees, according to Manannán.
Quickly I pull up my phone’s browser app and search for Cernunnos. It all fits—the antlers, his connection to nature and the cycle of life and death. I even find one website that claims banshees are the offspring of Cernunnos himself. As his descendant, it makes sense that I’m sensitive to certain deaths. And it also follows that the god of death might be able shield certain killings from my perception if he wanted to. I mean, he’s kind of the boss.
But the fact that he’s been veiling things from me could mean he’s more conscious than we thought. Possibly my dad has realized that as well. He noticed my surprise when I heard about those two deacons being stabbed to death with sticks. He knows I didn’t mourn them, that I didn’t even realize they had died. And sure, he’s been drinking a lot lately, but he can put two and two together.
I feel hollow and shaky inside, like the stabilizing core of my self has been ripped out. Pastor Linton is always the one who sends the church-wide emails. He never lets anyone else do it. What does it mean that Edgar sent the letter this time? And what was all that crap about fasting, deprivation, and confession? And sacrifice? I mean, Wicklow has always been kind of creepy at times, but this is over-the-top. Surely everyone else in the congregation can see that. They can be strict and judgmental, but they’re not fanatical like Edgar sounds in the email.
I close my eyes, willing myself to relax, to resist the fear creepingalong my spine. There’s no need to worry about this. I’ve seen the congregation get riled up before, begging for a “fresh anointing of the Holy Spirit” or a new revival. It’s just people needing a little excitement in their lives. The frenzy always passes pretty quick, and this will, too.
12
Heathcliff
The minute I step into the Grange, a bullet bites the wood floor near my feet.
“Fuck!” I shout, leaping back.
Hindley comes down the stairs, twirling his favorite pistol. “You stole my truck.”
“Borrowed.” He’d be even more pissed if he knew I’d borrowed it the other night, too, for the meeting at Moretti’s.
“You missed work.”
“So I missed one shift. Big deal.” I toss my bag onto the floor and close the door behind me as casually as I can, as if I’m assuming he won’t shoot again. “You have three other employees, Hindley. They all know the business better than I do. I’m just the muscle, the guy who lifts stuff.”
“Yeah, and we needed your muscle today.”
“I’ll work a double shift tomorrow.” I shuffle past the stairs toward the kitchen. A measured pace, like I’m tired. It’s body language I’ve learned by heart, the recipe for lowering Hindley’s boiling point to a simmer.
And it works. I’m rewarded by the click of the safety.
